A Girl to Hate
by rablacks
Summary: Their love story was not a love story, for they both found the mere concept of love quite silly, honestly.


written for the 30 day writing challenge over at my writing tumblr, ablackheartpassed; i was supposed to write a love story and - of course - I am incapable of writing anything even somewhat happy. angst all around! anyway, i really hope you enjoy (and review)! :3

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Their love story was not a love story, for they both found the mere concept of love quite silly, honestly.

It was anything but love that first brought them together; both sixteen and with a newly branded serpent tattoo forever etched into their forearms, they found some sort of comfort in each other's company. He was quite lost; stripped of a brother, of hope, of choices, all he was looking for was something to ease the dull ache in his mind. She was the opposite of him; finally accepted as a soldier for the Dark Lord, the absolute thrill of this new development made her an unstoppable force, dark and dangerous.

Their first conversation was not magical, they did not gaze lovingly into each other's eyes at first sight and they certainly did not know what the future held for them.

("Hey, Black, do you happen to have a smoke?"

"Yeah," he nods, holding out the packet. "Here." Her lips quirk upwards in an almost smile, a thank you, and she passes him without a second glance as he continues for the dorm in the same manner.)

And then the nightmares began for him, and sleepless nights led him to the Astronomy Tower; except that she turned out to be a night bird, so they would sit together, surrounded by nothing but the cold, howling wind. They did not talk, not much, really, but their mere presence, it..it had a most curious effect on them. The very few words that they spoke had a habit of settling in their minds firmly, echoing for days, simply because they were spoken by them. It was like an addiction, after that. They talked more and more and more and soon enough neither one of them could quite bring themself to imagine a day without the other. She was the medicine he was looking for, and the dull ache that tortured him so would disappear whenever she was near him; and the unstoppable force she once was found that it could be quite tiring to be unstoppable, but all she knew was how to keep going — so he calmed her down, soothed the itching under her skin and the begging in her bones.

Neither of them was all that eager for a love interest, so they left their relationship intact for the most time. But they all knew it was coming, honestly, and so in a firewhiskey-induced haze one evening, hands explored bare skin and teeth bit into lips hard enough to draw blood, the metallic taste filling both their mouths.

After that, it was free-falling into a vortex of..well, love?

No.

Not quite yet.

It was only physical comfort in the beginning; on those awful parties pureblood families prepared, they would disappear off to the nearest empty room and fuck out the frustrations they both had merely for having to be there; on cold evenings, they would sneak into one of the empty classrooms and her back pressed into the stone wall, they continued to complete each other perfectly. Except that they were not perfect. She believed, she actually believed in the cause they were fighting for and she frowned at his silence, tapped her foot nervously at his unreadable expressions, her tone cold and a brow coolly arched she observed him, observed until he snapped, until his gaze turned to stone and he was certain that he hated this girl — this sadistic, unhinged girl who managed to get close enough to him to sense that something was off about his loyalties.

Then they would meet in an empty corridor and their tongues would be fighting for dominance within seconds, hands roaming freely and wildly over each other's bodies.

Her persistence drove him mad and his lack of passion for the right things frustrated her to no end. And yet they could not bring themselves to stay away, to save their minds from this dark impacts they had on each other.

On their first mission together, he saw her smile the first time. He saw her smile her _real_ smile the first time; dangerous, wicked, and _wild_. The woman below her shook on the floor, screaming and begging and — he couldn't take it anymore, he couldn't listen to one more second of the wretched noise or he would — _"Avada Kedavra."_

It was the first person he ever killed, and he thought that maybe it was wrong that he wasn't even surprised that he hadn't felt anything. He was surprised, however, that she did not mention the event. Not even a word. She had just looked at him after he had done it, her stare disturbing but unreadable, and let go of the event, as if it had not even happened, as if that woman had not gone through hours of torture merely for the amusement of sick murderers. But, really, he should stop forcing himself to judge those people, trying to pretend like he was not a monster himself now, trying to make himself believe that he could not understand them.

Their seventh year passed by in a similar passion, except that they were at peace now with the fact that they were terrible for each other, that whatever they had was destructive and deadly, and that they would probably keep going until it killed them both.

And then they were eighteen; two years into the war and all of a sudden he realised that she was the only thing keeping his somewhat sane — _she_ was, the person who used to drive him insane, took pleasure in trapping him until his back was against the wall and all he could do was lie, lie that he believed, lie that he loved it, lie that any doubts she might have about him were ridiculous. And there he was, falling off the edge with only her holding him up.

So he did the only thing he could do, really, or at least the only thing his unhinged mind would allow. He told her everything; for the first time in his life, he told the full truth.

There was shouting, crashes, curses, and then nothing but absolute silence as she stared at him with her wand in hand aimed directly at his face. He had not even bothered to pull his out; he was too tired for this, he couldn't bring himself to care what would happen to him — the only thing he cared about that moment was the girl in front of him, the girl he hated so much. Her glare cut trough him like a blade, but her hand shook and her breathing was shallow and quick.

"I fucking hate you," she spits out, her tone pure venom.

"I love you too, darling," he shoots back, the words careless in his mind. For what is love? Love does not exist, love is not even worth considering.

They stay like that for one more long moment before she lowers her wand, her sharp gaze still on him. "You are a disgrace. A traitor, a liar, a — what, were you a spy, too, all this time? Following your _dear_ brother's footsteps?" Her voice is shaking with pure rage; he observes her coolly — she was always quick to lose her temper.

"Hardly a spy. I am, was, a good Death Eater, you cannot deny that. As it turns out, I just have some problems with killing people that did absolutely nothing to me." Her jaw clenches and he can see that she is preparing herself for a tirade on the filth some call muggles and muggleborns — Merlin knows he's heard it more than enough times in tha past — so he huffs out a quick breath.

"Could you not?" he drawls, unimpressed. "Decide. Kill me, turn me in, maim me, just do something, if that wouldn't be too big of an issue for you."

She closes her eyes and he struggles to remain untouched; to see her so weak, so exposed... And all because of him.

"You know I can't do that," she answers after some time, breaking the silence.

He tilts his head to the side, eyes curious. "Can't you?" She takes one large step that was separating them, her face barely an inch from his. "Fuck you," she manages quietly, her voice broken, raw from the motion she hasn't let herself feel in so long, and she pushes her nose lightly against the crook in his neck. She was always the strong one, the fierce one; no weak spots, no mercy — and yet here she was with a traitor. Her brother would spit down on her, would mock her, shout at her, _did I die for nothing?_ But she can't bring herself to move away, can only put her arms around his neck and feel his sneak around her waist, can only press her lips against his in such a tired yet violent way; he pushes his tongue into her mouth and pushes her into a wall, teeth against lip, skin against stone, salty tears joining metallic blood on their tongues. She wants to hit him, she wants to _hurt_ him, so she digs her nail into his back, under his shirt, and presses him harder against her until she can feel blood under her fingertips and their lips stop moving in sync. They both stay silent, panting, waiting for their lungs to be reliable again. He buries his face in her hair, eyes closed tightly as he breathes in. _I'm sorry_, he wants to say, but he does not know what to apologise for — for lying all along or for telling the truth?

They just stand like that for a minute, basking in the simplicity of silence; maybe they can pretend that none of this just happened, Regulus think he could —

"What are you going to do?" she asks suddenly, and he feels the comfort draining out of him.

He presses his body back onto hers and leans his forehead on the cool stone above her head. "I don't know, I just," he heaves a sigh, closing his eyes. If it were someone else with him, he would have continued in that manner. But this is her — this is _her_— so he opens his eyes and faces her. "Do you know what horcruxes are?"

And so he explains it all to her: the slip-up the Dark Lord made in front of him, his doubts being confirmed, the copy of the locket he made back at his house, the cave he discovered; and she just listens, silent and curious. By the time he is done, her expression is marred by a frown. "You cannot do this alone."

"I am not alone, I have Kreach —"

"You want to bring a house-elf with you to destroy a cursed object made by the world's most powerful wizard. How…clever," she dead-pans. "If you are so hell-bent on doing this treacherous, idiotic thing, then at least do it right. Did your intellect disappear with your loyalty? Or are you just that eager to die?" she asks, the biting tone accompanied by an arched eyebrow.

"What do you propose we do, then?"

"Well, first of all, I propose we get the fuck out of here. Unless you would like to plan on taking down the Dark Lord whilst he is in the same manor, that is." Without another word, the take a step towards the door in union, and then they freeze.

"Did you hear tha —" Before he can finish, she is already out of the door, and he follows. The hems of someone's robes turn around a corner and their partnership — the same one that makes them excel at all their missions — makes them break out into a sprint at the same time as he casts a charm to block the hallway. They run until they see him; Blake, accompanied by the younger Yaxley and Morozov, a werewolf Greyback brought in two months ago. The group of three stand together, but in a state of disarray; words rush out of Blake's mouth at an impossible speed, likely to inform Yaxley and Morozov of the situation at hand before they come — and he accomplishes the act, apparently, for by the time they come, the two wizards have their wands out, and Morozov seems particularly careful about the amount of teeth he is showing.

"_Regulus Black and Azaria Mackenna_," Yaxley drawls out, his expression smug and threatening. "The two lovebirds — did you finish your list of activities couples do, so you decided that betraying the most powerful wizard in our entire history sounded like a good idea?"

"Your lack of intelligence gets in the way of anything clever you try to say, Yaxley, you might want to shut up," Regulus says, his tone utterly unimpressed, though his heart beats violently against his chest, as if it wants to jump out. "Also, I imagine Grindewald would have been the most powerful wizard in our history." Both he and Azaria have their wands out, as well, and they are trained on the Death Eaters in front of them. Problem is, three to two are not the best numbers for them. Azaria clenches her jaw, swallowing down the impulse to do something stupid, reckless, something that could get them killed.

"Cat got your tongue, MacKenna? And here I was, thinking you were the talkative one," Morozov suddenly speaks up "You never seem to shut up when it comes to talking how werewolves are trash, huh, darling?" And maybe he expects Azaria to be afraid, but that is the most foolish expectation, really — she is far too insane for anything as clever as fear.

"That's because werewolves _are_ trash…_darling_," she says, her voice sickly sweet, only half a second before Morozov's excuse for clothes is on fire and his roar rips through the air. Yaxley quickly extinguishes the flames with a water charm, but it proves to have been a good distraction; red light flies from Regulus' wand straight for Yaxley, but the man manages to avoid it, and so they begin their dance. Yaxley is one of the best duelists the Death Eaters have — but then again, so is Regulus. Azaria shouldn't have trouble taking down Blake — such an incompetent fool, really — and from the corner of his eye Regulus thinks he sees blood. So he is down, then, without a doubt. A cutting charm catches him in the shoulder and he winces, shouting _"Confringo!"_ in the man's direction, but his curse is once again avoided. Already feeling irritation creeping up his veins, Regulus' eyes darken as he refocuses his gaze on the enemy. He dodges before the purple light can hit him and he's had enough of this child's play. "Confringo," he mutters again, far enough from Yaxley to save him from being seriously hit and close enough to serve as a distraction; he wants to make sure the man is dead, and a pile of rocks falling on him is not enough. He takes a step forward, stares into Yaxley's wide eyes as the man lays on the marble floor, wandless and bleeding. He lifts up his wand.

"No, plea —"

"Avada Kedavra!" The green light hits him in a second and Regulus watches life fade away from his frozen blue eyes. Only yesterday he sat next to him at the meeting.

A scream rises from the floor; scream that freezes blood and makes your skin itch, scream only a dying person could make. And when Regulus looks up from Yaxley's dead body, he finds only Morozov and himself standing. Right under the werewolf lays a girl, bloodied and cut, her clothes drenched with the dark red liquid that coursed threw her veins less than a minute ago; there lays a girl he hates so, so much, a girl sadistic and unhinged, a girl that spent the last two and a half years driving him insane and then saved him in the end. There lays a girl he hates, a girl he hates to love — to love so much his chest hurts, so much that now as he sees her lifeless on the floor, he cannot feel himself, he is not aware of his wand being lifted, or the cruciatus curse being spoken, but he sees Morozov writhing on the floor, his eyes rolling back into his head and he knows, he knows, that it is the strongest curse he has ever cast in his entire life.

Because of the girl he hates.

Because of the girl he loves.

All he can see is red, and when he spots movement to his left - Blake - he makes two swift steps and without saying anything, a snake appears on his unspoken orders, charging at the man - Regulus is not satisfied until the floor around the man is completely covered in blood, the red marks resembling a snow angel on marble; his cousin's marble, he just killed two Death Eaters in his cousin's manor. Slowly, he turns his gaze to the shaking shape on the floor; tilts his head, eyes pondering and empty. Time to make a third.

The screams are heard all trough the manor, blood-curling and haunting - by the time anyone arrives, all that can be found on the bloodied floor are three dead bodies, mutilated beyond recognision.


End file.
